


She Pins You To Doors, Not A Goddess Anymore (She Still Looks Like Religion. She Kisses You Godless)

by Iamasortofvillain



Category: The Haunting of Bly Manor (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Gentle Sex, Idiots in Love, No Angst, One Shot, Romance, Sexual Content, Short One Shot, Snow, Tumblr Prompt, so much love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:15:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28897995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iamasortofvillain/pseuds/Iamasortofvillain
Summary: A Tumblr prompt from a sweet anon: "I give you a prompt: Damie and snow :) And if you have other fics where snow is involved please can you share them?"
Relationships: Dani Clayton & Jamie, Dani Clayton/Jamie
Comments: 12
Kudos: 74





	She Pins You To Doors, Not A Goddess Anymore (She Still Looks Like Religion. She Kisses You Godless)

**Author's Note:**

> "The Eskimo has fifty-names for snow because it is important to them;  
> there ought to be as many for love"  
> \- Margaret Atwood

The winter arrives early this year, a hard freeze, followed by an enormous fall of snow the next day. Outside the window of your bedroom, it swirls down, bucket after bucket of it, as if God is dumping laundry flakes in the finale of a children's pageant. It's not cold inside the apartment, but when you press your palm against the glass, there's a ghostly bite to it, as if you can sense the frozen drops.

You turn the weather channel on to get the full panorama, while Jamie lounges on the bed, wearing nothing but an old black shirt and some wool socks, munching happily on a stack of cookies that were meant to be a week-long supply. When you look at her, she smiles her big happy smile, grey-green eyes gleaming, love and calm spreads around her, pulses, vibrates. You love her so much your chest hurts.

You're standing right by the small TV, gazing at Jamie over your shoulder, and for a minute, you forget about the snow and the weather channel and indulge yourself, drinking the sight of a half-dressed Jamie, completely at ease; Brown messy curls fall into her eyes, the lopsided smile full of dirty promises, of strong partnership, of a hundred little things you've never thought you'd share. Six years down the road, and you're still nursing the same desire, the same lust, the same old need to be close to her.

"How's the weather?" Jamie says, the dangerous shine still very present in her eyes. You feel heat, in the pit of your stomach.

You turn back to the TV, mainly to occupy yourself with something that isn't Jamie's bare legs, Jamie's sinful eyes, Jamie's too-small, too-teasing underwear.

"Erm..."

The weather is awful. The weatherman, clad in a faint-blue suit with his hair combed back slickly, describes something beyond your understanding, pointing to a colourful map that serves also as a background. You furrow your brows. Roads are closed, cars buried, power lines down.

"Shit," you mutter under your breath. You've been planning your fifth-anniversary date for a week now, hoping the weather will hold, hoping the winter will linger back, just for one more night, a couple of meaningless hours, but it seems like you've got no such luck.

"S'alright," Jamie's out of bed now, right behind you, and she quickly wraps her arms around your waist, making herself comfortable against your back, her nose cold and slightly damp against your skin. A shiver runs down your spine, but not because of the cold. Jamie's close proximity always manages to leave you breathless, slightly dizzy. She spikes an almost embarrassing flash of uncontrollable desire within you and it's all you can do folding your hands over hers, palms against the back of her hands.

(Jamie smells like shower gel and herbs and sleep, an intoxicating mix of intimacy. Of home).

Jamie makes a low noise from inside her chest and you sink into her embrace.

"S'alright," she repeats and gives you a slow, playful shake. "Not going anywhere today, are we?"

"Not today," you agree.

"Too soon to think about tomorrow, then." She says and you nod, head resting on her shoulder. She kisses a burning trail of soft kisses down your neck, right below your ear, and you don't think about the weather for the rest of the day.

The next day you go out, among the cold, splendid dunes. Snow is attractive when framed by Jamie's child-like wonder, by Jamie's crooked smile, by Jamie's big eyes widening in the relative darkness. The snow is cold, big soft caressing flakes fall onto your skin like cold moths, the air fills with feathers. You're a lucky witness to Jamie's wonderstruck expression, her adoring gaze, her elated spirits, and your heart is hammering against your ribs.

You walk along the sidewalk through the twilight while cars drift past you, hushed and slowed by the snow. The trees are naked from leaves and the white wet cotton makes them look temporary. Jamie is no longer a composed companion by your side, mature and controlled, but an excited child, so young and so beautiful it spikes a sharp pain in your chest. She slides next to you every couple of steps, she makes snowballs which she throws at lamp posts when there isn't anybody in sight. She throws it at fire hydrants and piles of dirt, and once, bravely, at your shoulder, though she brushes it off immediately and kisses you hotly.

"You're worse than the school-kids." You tell her and she smirks.

"Much prettier, though," and she tosses you a side-eye she knows drives you crazy.

You pick up some snow, tuck it into a small ball and throw her way. She laughs, scrunching her nose with delight, and you're laughing too.

"Also, humble".

"What can I say, Poppins?" Jamie makes a perfect snowball, tapping it lightly. "Not a very good liar, me," and it's true. She really isn't.

Jamie's aim is poor and she doesn't hit much of anything. The streetlights come on, though it isn't very dark yet. The lights from the street are making Jamie's eyes twinkle, and there are snowflakes caught in her hair. Her lips are curved in a smile and she looks so beautiful it takes your breath away. For a brief moment, silly and foolish and completely unintentional, you step closer and lean in to press your lips against her.

Jamie is frozen in surprise against you. You don't usually kiss in public, even when it's just an empty street in a small empty town. Then, gentle and soft, she kisses you back, lips warm against yours. Jamie has her hands on your elbows, grounding you against the crispy snow, grounding herself against you, and she tastes like chocolate and mint and candy canes. She tastes like Christmas. She doesn't taste yet like cigarettes.

"Hmm," you say against her mouth and she returns a moan of her own. Then Jamie's tongue glides in, slides against your bottom lip and the world fades away. You melt into her.

The street is a lustrous avalanche, with an alpine tunnel cut through it. You make it to the sidewalk when you've had enough, lips kiss-swollen, hearts beating fast. It's hard to stop kissing Jamie, but you must because she grumbles and laughs and breathes very fast and you're not strong enough to resist doing something foolish.

"Keep doing that," Jamie grumbles against your mouth, hands already slipping around your body. "Gon' have some trouble going back home".

"Home?" You laugh against her mouth, not ready to step away just yet. "We have plans!"

"We have." Jamie's growl is endearing though full of promises so you step away and drag her along. You know she's right, and you really do have plans. Had them for some time, now.

You reach your destination and all playfulness leaves you both in a hushed sigh. You stand with Jamie on the sidewalk, elbows locked, pressed close together against the biting cold. You look at the theater building, neglected and old and nothing like you remember it to be. There is a large dumpster standing in front of the double doors, which are closed now and dark. The dumpster is full of shattered wood and slabs of plaster; renovations or fire, you cannot tell.

An impressive amount of people are standing in the street beside you, couples and parents with small children, all gazing at the sad ludicrous show. There was no notice, no warning, and you know you and Jamie are not the only ones who had in mind visiting the cinema in such horrific weather.

The building looks unowned, transient, like a picture in a real estate flyer. Snow is slowly falling from the sky, making a somewhat strange screen through which you gaze wistfully. The building looks sad. It's no longer connected with the warm red-bricked movie theater you have in your mind. Nothing looks the same, even the huge dry board where the names of the movies showing this week were flashing red and black is nothing but a ghost of its former glory.

"Shit," mumbles Jamie and sniffles. She is cuddled in a huge parka coat and her curls are showing under the toque you made her wear, snow caught in them, not melting yet. All you can see from her face are two wonderful bright eyes, shining through something like anger, and the tip of a red nose. Her mouth is hidden behind a scarf and she absent-mindedly runs her palm, the one that isn't holding into you, over your arm.

"Shit".

The world is perfectly still. Perfectly white. Jamie, without saying another word, frees her hands and searches for her cigarettes. She produces one, cups it against the air, lighting it. Her lighter is black and gold and small, it's the one you bought her a few months ago after she lost her old lighter. You notice she always has it in her pocket, even when the cigarettes are missing.

It's cold outside and your winter boots are creaking against the dry snow as you shift your weight from one foot to the other. The light from the street lamps fall on the snowy street, ice blue at the edges and spotted with yellow Braille of dog pee, not yet dirty from feet and wheels and machines. The shadows are different, now that the theater is closed. Jamie cuddles back against you, inhaling deeply. The bitter smoke swirls around your heads, with the falling snow, and there is a sort of identical hope in both your chests.

You let out a small breath. White smoke in the freezing air, as thick as Jamie's cigarette stained breath. There is a hectic warmth to Jamie's closeness and she feels raw under your hands. Her body, so still and warm, so present, so strong, is buzzing against yours. Energy is passing between you. You are stronger with her by your side.

"Another time," you lean close and whisper against her covered face. Jamie's nod is clipped, crumped, but there isn't anything you can do and because your town has only one cinema, you can't really offer an alternative. You wish you could.

Jamie stubs out her cigarette. It's too cold to smoke.

"Another day." She agrees.

"That's alright," you say and give her a gentle shake, then a small tug. "We have a dinner reservation for later. We'll get there earlier. come on. Let's just go there".

"It's not until nine," Jamie says in a sad tone, and because you know her, and because you have spent days and months and years learning her, tracing her body and soul, twisting and turning and studying, getting more and more comfortable reading her with every moment that passes, you know she's devastated. She had a plan, and now it is crumbled and ruined and you need to think of something other than hugging her close.

"Hey," you say softly. "Hey".

Jamie smiles. It's not a happy smile and she leans against you her full weight, heavy and comforting. There is no mess and no mischief and no danger to her closeness now, just Jamie, serious and slightly sad and you want to coax her out of it because today you're happy, today is a good day, light and cold and snowing and you sneak a heated kiss, steal it from her, taking more than giving, before offering her your hand.

"C'mon," you untangle yourself from her and tug on her arm. Jamie, somewhat grumpy but willing, lets herself be dragged after you, before falling to step.

The days are darker now, the trees glum, the sun rolls downhill earlier and earlier and the winter is here, howling winds and ominous delay and cold cold white snow that Jamie likes so much, likes with a sense of childish-wonder, of someone who has never seen snow before.

"Seen snow, alright," she tells you. "Just not like this".

You walk in comfortable silence, hand in hand. Jamie talks about the bridge on the horizon, a part of another town. She talks about structural weakness and how it's time to tear it down and build something bigger, something greater. She amuses you by telling you some ridiculous tale about how one of your regular customers, a gentleman about eighty years old who always buys deep dark Carnation bouquets, swore on Jesus' robes that there was dirty money involved while building the bridge, changing hands under the table of facilitate and deal.

"Always is," Jamie mumbles as if there isn't anything more important than old tales and ancient gossips about an already established bridge.

"You really going to spend our anniversary on old bridges and Mr. Griffen's tales?" You say but you're still laughing - so hard you're shaking, and Jamie's wonderful greenish-grey eyes light up with mischief.

(Jamie's eyes, something even years down the road has you gasping for air, shaking with desire, are smooth and dark and full of love, full of lust that is completely inappropriate for such cold weather, for such a public place).

"Y'know," she says and the conspiracy is all too blunt, all too visible, all too much like a game on her mouth, reflecting in her eyes. "Still got plenty of time 'till dinner".

"Oh, yeah?" Your voice is higher than intended and Jamie senses your want.

"Yeah".

"What do you have in mind?"

But Jamie is too soft and too golden and too gentle, too kind, to drag you through such torture and she tosses her head back and glances at you from the corner of her eye and somehow manages to look collected and in perfect control of herself while strolling with your hand in her's down the street, suggesting filthy ends to soft night without saying a word.

"You're mean," you mutter at her under your breath and Jamie laughs. Her laugh is sweet and warm and you're melting into sticky desire, aching and warm and outside of your body.

You and Jamie smile at each other. Jamie lacks the necessary deliberate cruelty to go along with such explicit torture. She has a knack for making you beg and writhe when there is enough space for you to bed and writhe in, but you're outside now and she knows it might end in a too-cold alley, so she isn't even trying to rile you up. Jamie, so gentle and so kind and so loving. Jamie, making sure your evening, though far from being what you've planned, is still perfect.

(With Jamie, even a purposeless walk through the frozen town feels exciting. The warm gleam of her is enough and you clutch her arm in your hand, lean into her warmth a little).

You reach the restaurant at half-past eight. The restaurant is a small place, a done over house with a large well-put-together atmosphere.it's scornful and elegant, gleaming with emptiness. It's very nice, with kind but slightly patronising waiters who suggest wines and dishes and you make sure to look them in the eye when you say a polite, stretched out, slightly drawling, "thank you".

You've been here before with Jamie. You've sat at a table right beside the big window facing the street and touched, across the surface of the table. now you do the same. It's only the ends of the fingers, only lightly, and even the tips is too much. You sit across from her, talking lightly. There's none of the verbal prodding of the first days, none of the shaking insecurity. Instead, there's a shared vocabulary, some silences, some monosyllabic responses that means the world. You can see your face reflecting in Jamie's eyes. You hope she understands how unbelievably wonderful it is for you to just sit here, in her company, having six years of shared past tugging lightly along.

Jamie smiles her beautiful smile, nose twitching as if reading your mind. Inside the restaurant, it's hot and oppressive and dim and there is a mournful low tune in the background, violins, and cello. You like it.

"Slightly pretentious. Too posh for me. Makes me feel like a clumsy clown, like I might spill something".

"You're plenty posh." You tell her with a smile and Jamie laughs her throaty laugh.

"You're a bad liar, Poppins." She informs you fondly, then winks, boyish and so so lovely. "S'all good. Makes it so much more interesting in the bedroom".

You gasp, surprised and slightly embarrassed at Jamie's sudden bravado in public, and Jamie laughs more before letting it dissolve into comfortable gazing, soft smiling. You reach across the table and take Jamie's hand in yours. When the waiter brings the wine, he smiles warmly at your linked fingers.

"You guys on a date?" he asks and there is no trace of malice in his voice. His eyes are bright. Hopeful. You think you recognise some of his hopefulness in yourself, in your past self, before you knew what Jamie's kisses tasted like.

Jamie nods once and you say, "Actually, it's our fifth anniversary," to which he smiles even brighter and wanders off to the front register, where a big black man with an eye-patch and a scar across his cheek sits. The waiter comes back and points a thumb over his shoulder, to the scarred man.

"Big John over there said wine's on the house".

Big John waves, a kind smile twisting his vicious scar into a pink half-moon. Even sitted, he looks taller than most people.

You wipe a tear under your eye and mouth a "thank you", Jamie looks slightly moved. Then, when the wine is poured and the salads neither one of you ordered with your main course are displayed on the table, Jamie raises her glass and you raise yours and there are not enough words in the English language to describe just what you feel right now, her charming smile lighting the dim restaurant like a huge lamp.

You're out of breath, and it's so familiar you heave a sigh. Outside, the snow keeps falling and Jamie is momentarily speechless. You appreciate the gesture.

"To us?" You ask shyly, self-conscious of how selfish you are for keeping her at your side, unable to let her go even though you know this isn't forever. You don't want to be awkward tonight, so you shake that feeling off and focus instead on Jamie. Jamie, who is laughing her scratchy wonderful laugh. who's smiles cover a multitude of sins.

(You can tell, even without her saying so, that she's exactly where she wants to be).

"Why not? To us, Poppins. To many more years of us," there is some gravity in her words, a gravity that she lacked before. (Before what? Before she decided to spend her life with you, before she loved you, before she gave up on forever-after, knowing you couldn't offer her such a sweet lie).

You beam at her and squeeze her hand, the hand you're still holding, refusing stubbornly to let go. She returns your squeeze. You are happy; here, with Jamie by your side, with snow falling from the sky too early for people to be completely prepared for it. You're as happy as you can be sitting in this restaurant, clad in light-coloured dress, toasting to the future you and Jamie refuse to acknowledge beyond a casual word here and there. the restaurant is hot, the heat (and Jamie's close proximity) dizzying, blinding.

When you look Jamie in the eyes, you know she's happy too. There is no urgency and no war, nowhere to rush off to. There is something special in her, something only Jamie possesses and it's not because she's pretty or because she's smart or because she's loving and genial and brilliant, though she is all those things. There is something special in her because she's simply Jamie and you can't imagine your life apart from her.

You are talking about the shop in a sort of tone you always use when trying not to involve business with pleasure. You both laugh and exchange small stories that hadn't dried up yet and you wonder, when there's a lull in the conversation, when did it all become so safe? There are no scary ghosts here, no painful memories, no stumbling gestures or stuttered words. Jamie is talking and you're listening, hanging on to every word. Jamie is listening in a similar manner, eyes open wide, mouth pressed close, a picture of concentration. You look at her and you realise that this could easily be your favourite thing, though everything to do with Jamie is your favourite thing, be it staying in bed or working in the shop, or going grocery shopping at the huge supermarket right at the edge of town. It's the kind of excited fondness, of not yet transformed love, of relaxation. You love Jamie completely and she loves you the same, and there are no throwing panic and no bouncy fear any longer, but the catching breath and the amazement and the fast-beating heart is all there.

Even still, six years down the road.

When the food arrives, the conversation steers to other directions and you can almost relax against the back of your seat. Almost, because Jamie's sinful eyes are on you the whole time, her smile slightly crooked, her nose still twitching. You squirm in your seat, all too aware of what the look in her eyes mean, what her smile says, what is it on her mind.

The food is heavenly, and you make sure to leave a big enough tip to cover the free wine before you pull Jamie by the sleeve out into the cold, shaking visibly with desire.

"Good christ, Poppins. What's gotten into you?"

"You know exactly what," is your predictable grumbled reply and Jamie looks very pleased with herself.

Outside, snow falls, softly at first, then in hard pellets that sting the skin like needles. The sky has changed from washed blood to skim milk, smoke pours from the chimneys, from the furnaces stoked with coal. There are steamed buns on the streets, which are frozen solid, and children running around, to their tired parents' dismay. The snow is still virginly white. Perfectly clean. Very beautiful.

(Not as beautiful as Jamie. Almost as beautiful as the sky).

The clock strikes midnight, over and over and over. The sky is a deep blue-black riddle with icy stars, the moon a white bone. The snow now is jagged, dark without violation, falling falling falling. It's hard going back outside, but you must and you make sure Jamie's scarf is wrapped tight around her. She's a little reckless with the cold weather, and you know how unforgiving the winter can be. You don't want her to catch a cold.

As you walk, somewhat unsteadily, back home, Jamie throws her head back. You walk hand in hand, elbows locked securely together, not very helpful in keeping yourselves from swaying, but somehow perfect. When she turns to you, drunk and happy, about to comment on the dark sky or the white snow beneath your feet, you wrap your arms around her waist and press your lips against hers. Jamie whimpers quietly when you suck on her bottom lip and you pull back slightly, leaning your forehead against hers.

You bring your arms from her waist and loop them around her neck. Jamie is smiling and it takes you almost five minutes to realise you're spinning lazily in tight circles, slow dancing to no music. Jamie's hands are gentle on your waist and she's watching you with an unguarded look of utter adoration, so you tangle your fingers in her hair and tug her closer to kiss her again.

Jamie tastes like wine and mint, a lethal combination. her teeth bite at your bottom lip and her hands slide up your back. she moans into your mouth and when you press your entire body against hers, walking her backwards, she lets out a soft chuckle and pulls away, breaking the kiss completely.

"Nobody's watching," your eyes are closed, senses full of Jamie. Your voice is raspy, raw. Wet cotton presses between your legs.

"Lets go home," Jamie's voice drops as she leans to whisper against your lips.

Soon, you know, the snow will melt into grey smudges in the shadows and the sun will be warm again. Soon, the white explosions will subdue, the sky will turn light blue and summer will take over, with Jamie's light overalls and naked shoulders. But you and Jamie don't live in the future, and there is no point in thinking about summer when cold cold snow crunches under your heals.

Your heart is surprisingly light, no trace of shadows or faceless ghosts in sight, and you tug on Jamie's arms and murmur into her ear, "Can we walk a little faster, then?"

Jamie's face turns bright red under the disguise of her scarf, and she lets out a groan you know all too well, before picking up the pace.

You walk home under the low thick sky that is grey and bulging with dampness. The snowflakes are no longer magical and new, but moist and big and they are falling out, pulling on roofs and branches, sliding off now and then to hit with a wet cottony thunk on the ground. The world has transited in just a couple of hours from magical to dark and Jamie doesn't seem to care.

When you're close to your apartment complex, Jamie allows herself to nuzzle into your neck, happy and full and smelling like cigarettes and wine and _Jamie_.

"You're so fuckin' beautiful, Poppins. Here, and in the restaurant. And surrounded by snow".

"You just love the snow," you laugh, both of you more than slightly tipsy. Your breath is a cloud of white thick smoke in front of your face and your nose is freezing. There is no wind and your voices are muffled by the snow.

"I love you," Jamie says, incredulous and thick and raspy, and then she says it again, in an urgent kind of tone, as if you ever had the slightest of doubts.

"I _love _you. I love _you_ ".__

____

____

"I love you, too".

There are lights along the street, from houses and lamps and parking cars. Your hands and face and toes are hurting but Jamie is pressed to your side and she radiates warmth. Your head is filled with black sawdust of cold snow and hot desire, the burning sensation settling in the pit of your stomach, and Jamie growls something so filthy in your ear you almost trip.

You make your staggering way in the dark, up the hill. Your shoes are good but slippery and the small wind moves with you until you're inside your building and Jamie ushers you into the small lift, so small you have to stand presses side by side in order to fit in.

Inside the apartment, you push her against the door and she lets out a low grumble of surprise. There is something so utterly agonising in having Jamie pinned against the wall, right hand on her back, left threaded in her hair and pulling pulling pulling, trying to get her closer without having her clothes removed yet. There is some force behind this, some intoxicating trajectory that you're not going to try and decipher just now.

You lean in and brush your lips against Jamie's, which are hot and a fine contrast to her cold nose. Small snowflakes melt against her cheeks, around her shoulders.

"You like the snow," you say in a gleeful tease when Jamie shakes her head.

"Yeah".

You think your lungs will burst, your arm will give out, your knees with drag under you before you can coax Jamie into panting and moaning your name. You scrap your teeth against her jaw. Something tears – cloth, by the sound. Jamie's eyes are huge.

"Shit," she says. "Sorry, Poppins. Wasn't paying a – "

You latch into her, skirt and pantyhose be damned, no longer able to contain the wild want inside your chest. You kiss her a feverish kiss of _take_ rather than _give_ and Jamie whimpers when you press your whole front into her and dip your fingers between her legs, under her waistband, past soft curls and into a very wet, almost burning heat.

"Bed?" Jamie suggests, breath caught, struggling.

You shake your head. "No".

You feel Jamie's breath on your face as you pump your hand inside her pants. She slams her head back against the door and you watch her face carefully shifting, watch the shadows on her face shifting, the strange aching happiness, the _finally there_ relief.

Jamie cries out and you pause and watch her, shaking slightly under your too soft touch.

"Please," she whispers. "Dani, _please_ ".

She isn't even trying to pretend how bad she wants it, how much she needs it, and every single need to tease fades right into oblivion because you can do it later, much later when both of you aren't going crazy with lust. So you smile and kiss her and sink into her like she's made of silk, her wet center everything you can think about, your need to feel her coming against your hand your only goal.

"Dani," she says, arms tight around your shoulders, nose red. "Dani!"

Jamie's slick around your fingers, so wet, and if you weren't in such urgency to have her coming under your touch, you'd get down on your knees and take her, kneel for her in the way you suppose to in front of God and royalty and everything divine.

Your hands lose themselves in her folds, in her too warm clothes, and Jamie lavishing you with the sounds of satisfaction in your ear. You pump your fingers, swirl your thumb on swollen flesh until Jamie cries in ecstasy and thanks and so much love.

Then she's coming, clamping around you, new slick wetness coving your palm. You hold her in your arms, letting her recover from the high of a powerful orgasm hitting way too soon. You kiss the side of her face.

Jamie's hand sinks into your underwear, fingers cold. Your body jerks and she laughs lightly, so free and young and wonderful.

"What?" her eyebrows shooting up, a playful smile on her face, eyes still dark from arousal. "Didn't think I'll leave you hanging, did ya?"

"Jamie…" you sigh and she kisses you properly this time, on the mouth, a hot kiss of _want_ and _need_ and _love_.

Liquid is sloshing around you and Jamie mutters gently below your ear in her agonising voice, dark eyes dancing over your face. You can no longer hold yourself up as Jamie dips her fingers and caresses your thighs and your lower back, desire pulling you down until you sink onto her, your forehead falling against her shoulder, hips jerking out of control.

Jamie's tongue is warm and heavenly and rough. Caring. Her fingers between your legs, ever so experienced, pounding inside you, your desire seeping through, your flesh hot, jaw clenched, and Jamie – always Jamie, so solid, so present, so much like every imaginable future – you don't need much to come undone.

"Happy anniversary," Jamie whispers as you come.

"Who'd thought it would snow?" you manage to choke out before giving in to her skillful fingers for the second time, back pressed against the door, Jamie pressed to your front, and she's laughing when she kisses you, hot and reassuring, and she's laughing when you cry out in ecstasy, so different and sore, and she's still laughing when you come under her touch, kissing her shoulder with no hint of teeth.

Inside the apartment, you're the picture of happiness, without a decent ending. You're a garden of love, walled with glass. You're paradise filled with yearning and becoming and straight-forward journeys and no regrets. You are a twisted road. A laughing infinity.

Outside, the snow keeps falling. The winter arrived early this year.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! And a special thank you to a sweet anon giving me something to write about.
> 
> English is not my first language, and also I'm rocking ADHD like a MF so please excuse any and every misspellings, mistakes, and other Grammarly atrocities.  
> Also,  
> Come chat with me @ love-jesus-but-i-drink-a-little.tumblr.com


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